


bits and drabs

by naruhoe



Category: Dishonored (Video Games), Fables: The Wolf Among Us (Video Game)
Genre: Bigby's puppy eyes, Gen, some crossover bullshit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 02:11:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18714403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naruhoe/pseuds/naruhoe
Summary: Self-indulgent drabbles from TWAU verse. Mostly about Bigby, who is a big sad and I love very much.





	1. colin

"I take it all back- _This_ is why everyone hates you."

The words have barely left Colin's mouth before he sees the change in the wolf's posture, the slight downward shift of his mouth, the sudden uncertainty in those deep brown eyes. The Big Bad Wolf should _not_  be able to pull off puppy eyes as well as he does. And yet here Colin is. "So- everyone hates me?" Bigby says, with the skeptical lift of one brow that does absolutely nothing to conceal all the evidence to the contrary, the contrary being that the Big Bad Wolf gives a shit. About his job. About Fabletown. About a certain, frosty assistant to the Deputy Mayor, and maybe even Colin himself. After all, he's not back on the Farm yet... So he backpeddles. Of course he backpeddles. 

"Nah, I'm just giving you shit." Says Colin. Bigby gives him a look. It's a knowing look. A look that says 'you're full of it'. But it's a grateful look too, way deep down, or so Colin likes to think. But what does Colin know? He's just a pig. And Bigby... Well, to Colin, Bigby is just a selfish son of a bitch who won't share his whiskey. Here, in the privacy of the smallest apartment in the Woodlands, Colin can be the closest thing Bigby Wolf has to a friend. For as long as it lasts. Because Colin knows that real deep down, Bigby gives a shit, and while Colin has never promised to _forget_ , they're all here for a reason, right? A fresh start. Right. A fresh start. For as long as it lasts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHORT


	2. old wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crossover funtimes with Messrs Daud and Bigby Wolf.

When Bigby wakes up, his head hurts like a son of a bitch. He groans, and for a moment, allows himself to just lie there, on what feels like the hardest, lumpiest, most uncomfortable bed to exist _ever_  in the history of the universe. He breathes, feeling all the little scrapes and aches start to throb in a little stinging symphony of their very own. Suddenly, there's another groan. It isn't him, this time, and funnily enough, the lumpy bed beneath him is moving. He quickly deducts that it is not in fact a bed, but a body. A person, who is very much alive and unappreciative of the distribution of Bigby's weight on their arm.

It's when Bigby moves, rolling to the side and off of said person that he smells it. _Sniff_. He takes another whiff of the scent, just to be sure. It remains there, in the air, faint but undeniable: The scent of another wolf. The odd part is the _other_  scent. It's the river, the sea- brine and bitter mixed with the stale foulness of night soil and the sour tang of urine. Sewer and sea. But there is something else, as well. This stranger, for Bigby has never encountered them before- of that, he is sure -is mortal. A mundie, and yet, there is something off about his scent. It lingers at the edges, frustratingly intangible, but it almost has the same feel to it as the old magics Bigby had known in the Homelands. Almost, but different- colder, and hungrier.

Another groan. Bigby forces himself up onto his knees to take his first look at the stranger, the mortal who smells like a wolf. He catches a flash of grey eyes as the other rises stiffly into a crouch. They, too, are cold, and mistrustful- an old wolf's wary eyes. The man is wearing a red leather coat. A bandolier, slung diagonally across his chest. There is also what appears to be some sort of... machete? hanging at his belt, and he wears leather gloves that encase his arm up to the elbow. The face that greets Bigby is not quite handsome, but there's a certain draw to the lean, weathered lines of it, even despite the deep scar that cuts diagonally from temple to jawline, just missing one of the grey eyes that stare mistrustfully back at Bigby, no doubt scanning him just as Bigby is doing.

Just who _is_  this guy anyways? And does Bigby even know him? Mentally, he rewinds. There had been a case. A case about... a witch. It all comes rushing back, and Bigby remembers vividly the moment that a rogue spell had whizzed past his head and collided with the alchemical equipment behind him. A look to his right confirms his suspicions. Shattered glass on the floor amid the twisted remains of a table. The discolored area around it vaguely resembles as if a bomb had gone off. There is no sign of the witch. Great.

"Where am I?"

The voice takes him by surprise. It's low, slightly hoarse and gravely as anything he's ever heard before. Bigby would warrant that this man smokes, drinks, or both, in liberal amounts each. Takes one to know one. He catches another waft of the scent, and this time, has to suppress the instinctual reaction that would tear through the paper walls of his glamour and reveal him for what he is by way of the gleaming yellow eyes and a mouthful of sharp teeth. The mundie glares suspiciously at Bigby, and a stern brow rises, questioning. Funny clothing and all, the stranger has an air of command about him, a brand of assertive magnetism that makes Bigby resist the urge to straighten his tie. That, or raise his hackles.

"Manhattan." Says Bigby, if only for the sake of answering the question. There's something about the stranger's gaze that he doesn't like. Too calculating, like he already has his next five moves mapped out, ready to counter or destroy. But though the other man's expression remains as cool as ever, he catches the slight wrinkle in the man's brow that quickly smooths out. There is no recognition in his eyes. So Bigby tries again. "New York?" 

The tight draw of the man's mouth into a terse line is as good as any answer. "And the year?" He asks, grey eyes flickering over their surroundings, lingering for a moment on the site of the explosion, and then the grungy pane of the room's only window, through which a flickering neon sign advertising 'LOANS' can be seen. His accent is unfamiliar, Bigby realizes abruptly, and feels his stomach drop. Shit- he doesn't mean.?

"1986." Bigby says, with a growing sense of unease. If he's right about his suspicions, and all the evidence seems to be mounting up... the strange clothing, the unfamiliar accent; the apparent confusion about _when_ and _where_... Suffice to say that Bigby's in deep. The other man's following grumbled expletive just about sums up Bigby's thoughts on the matter.

"Well, shit." He says, passing a hand over his face. Bigby wordlessly pulls out a box of Huff 'n Puffs, tapping the bottom of the box as to produce a cigarette. Two cigarettes, one of which he offers to the stranger, who produces a lighter, flicking the top off with a practiced move of his thumb. Hah. Takes one to know one. They both light up over the faint glow the lighter's flame generates, two pairs of eyes meeting, one a flinty, suspicious grey, the other a deep, shadowed brown. The stranger flicks the top back over the box almost absently as he leans back, gaze returning to the neon sign visible through the window. Bigby does the same, tucking the packet of cigarettes away into the pocket of his slacks.

Inhale. The end of the cig lights up cherry red. Exhale. 

"Shitty brand." Remarks the stranger in his gravely voice. Bigby barks a surprised laugh.

"Get your own, then." He says. The corner of the other man's mouth quirks up in what may be dangerously close to a smirk. He's as good as his word, flicking the Huff 'n Puff away for Bigby to grind out the lit end with his shoe as he retrieves what actually looks like a cigarette case, tarnished silver etched with some sort of whale-like creature- for some reason, there are _tentacles_. Bigby chalks it up to artistic license. From there, the other retrieves a cig- two cigs, and holds one out for Bigby. Bigby provides the lighter this time. 

It's different. Unmistakably tobacco, but not like anything Bigby's ever smoked before. A little on the stale side, and when he exhales, he can taste the same river scent that clings to the stranger's clothing. Bigby wrinkles his nose. A moment later, a sneeze erupts out of him. The stranger doesn't quite laugh, but the upward twist of his lips is undeniably a smirk this time.

"That good?" 

Bigby shakes his head, in part to clear the lingering scent, another part to clear his head. "I think I prefer Huff 'n Puffs." He says, but something in his tone must radiate business, for the stranger's casual air firms back into steely composure. Putting the cigarette out under his foot, Bigby extends a hand. The other man's wary eyes linger on it for a moment, but after a moment's hesitation, he takes it. His grip is firm; The leather of his gloves crinkles as he shakes Bigby's hand with the air of someone familiar with but not regular to even basic courtesies. "Bigby Wolf."

The man's grey eyes seem to glitter in the harsh light provided by the naked fluorescent bulb hanging overhead. "Daud." A strange name for a strange man. Not that Bigby can talk.

"Welcome to Fabletown, Daud. Let's hope your stay is a short one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help myself


End file.
